


tongue-tied disservice

by AvaRosier



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar lives, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Prince Jon Targaryen, Sansa is being fostered in Starfall, The rebellion never happened, also Sansa is a melodramatic hoe in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:04:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21552082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRosier/pseuds/AvaRosier
Summary: Jon and Sansa are wedded and bedded for the good of the realm.(This is a republish)
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	tongue-tied disservice

**Author's Note:**

> title from BTSK by MS MR.

When Sansa had fantasized about her wedding, she had pictured a great feast with guests from at least a dozen houses, maybe even two. Something sumptuous with lots of flowers for decoration (this particular detail bloomed back when she was sweet on Ser Loras and had designs on living in Highgarden with a litter of puppies) and a glorious dove-gray silk dress she had embroidered herself. A maiden's cloak that her and her mother spent hours working on. Several days of festivities leading up to the wedding, maybe even a _tourney_! The specific image of her groom varied over the years, but he was usually tall, gallant and handsome, and either a lord or a knight who would smile charmingly at her while he recited poetry devoted to her beauty. They would have some time to get to know each other, and she would wake the morning of her wedding with a serene smile on her face as she was swarmed by her mother and handmaids to help ready her.

But her persistent prayers to the Maiden obviously incited the wrath of the gods, because Sansa got none of these things.

It was a cool autumn day, the sort that had the skies grey and the seas a dark greenish blue with white-capped waves, when Lord Edric Dayne summoned her to his solar. Sansa had rushed away from Lady Allyria's side to check her appearance in the small mirror in her chambers. While Lady watched her curiously from her perch on the bed, Sansa had nervously smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in her dusky lavender gown, the one with dragonflies embroidered onto it, and fixed up her half-crown of curls. _There, as lovely as I could hope to be_, she had thought before she made way at a more ladylike pace towards Edric's solar, ordering Lady to stay behind. She was admitted with a simple, friendly welcome and she sat in the chair facing Edric across his desk, her insides bursting with anticipation.

She had been in Starfall since she was but four and ten and while she initially hadn't seen the young lord as anything but the quiet, unassuming nephew of Lady Allyria, sometime after she had turned six and ten Sansa's feelings towards him had changed. Maybe it was the way Edric had grown into himself by the time he returned from squiring for Lord Beric Dondarrion in order to take up his father's mantle. He had been far more confident and assured and Sansa certainly had enjoyed standing on the balcony over the training yard, the one with the enormous, white-washed columns, inhaling the sea spray as she watched Edric duel the other knights and men-at-arms. From that point on, she had been sweet on him and they had such nice walks together. Her favorites were when Edric (“_Forgive me, my lord, but I cannot call you Ned after my father_”) would escort her along the promenade carved into the side of the cliff overlooking the choppy waters of the Torrentine. Surely her father would want to further repair the relationship between the Starks and Daynes by betrothing her to Lord Edric?

“Lady Sansa, Starfall has received a great number of ravens in the past fortnight,” Lord Edric began to explain, looking rather pensive as Sansa mentally planned the route of her wedding procession from Starfall's keep down to the Sept of the Evenstar. Everything would have to be timed _just right_ so they would be kneeling before the Father and the Mother as the sunset hit the fractured glass on the dome, casting everything in pink and purple lights.

“...there has been an assassination attempt on the King and his sons.”

Edric's words had finally sunk in, making her fantasy melt away like the first snow at the end of summer. She had made the appropriate sounds of horror, expressed the appropriate words of concern, asking after King Rhaegar and the princes. All were well, but a conspiracy had been uncovered implicating the Stormlands and Westerlands in a plot to overthrow the crown. “And the Reach? Would they not be tied to House Baratheon through marriage?” She had asked Edric, who confirmed her suspicions. The Tyrells could hardly disavow Lady Margaery even if they hadn't been aware of the assassination and a successful overthrow of the Targaryens would result in Lady Margaery being second in line to be Queen.

“King Rhaegar has called on the other Lords Paramount to call their banners to help put down the rebellion,” Edric had said while Sansa quietly admired how silky his pale blond hair looked now that it had been recently cut and the way his dark indigo doublet only made his violet eyes shine all the brighter.

“That's not going to be popular in the North,” Sansa had murmured, too distracted to be aware of how prescient her words were.

“Yes, which is why the King has proposed mending ties with the North through marriage.” Edric had said with reluctant gravitas, doing his utmost to look her in the eye as he delivered her life sentence. Sansa was clever, but that his words took so long to sink in was due to her unwillingness to accept what she knew was coming. Robb had already been wed to Wylla Manderly, therefore Sansa was next in line for consideration. She couldn't forestall Lord Edric's words in order to prepare herself. “I've been informed that you are to wed Prince Jon at Dragonstone in a fortnight.”

Sansa had absorbed the news with as much grace as her mother and septa had zealously instilled in her. It wouldn't do to make a scene and reflect poorly on her family. So she had thanked Lord Edric with a tremulous voice for fostering her these past four years and how sad she was to be leaving Lady Allyria on such short notice. Then, before he could say anything further, she had begged his pardon with some excuse about having to start making arrangements. That had been a lie; she had picked her skirts up the moment she was outside his solar and ran back to her chambers, flinging herself onto her bed next to her startled direwolf and sobbing her heart out into her pillow.

She left scarcely two days later, having to travel by water in a merchant ship in order to keep the King's intentions to wed her to Prince Jon secret until the Northern armies were ready to make their move. There was risk no matter which route she took, but at least by sea she might avoid being spotted and identified on the Roseroad through the Stormlands.

During the first week, while they sailed along the southern coast of Dorne, Sansa fervently worked on altering one of her nicest gowns and tried to remind herself of the words of her mother's house: '_Family, Duty, Honor_'. If her stitches were perfectly straight, she would be surprised. As she worked, she would alternate between weeping silently and squaring her shoulders, resolving this or that. Sansa was a maiden flowered, it was long past the time she let go of such fanciful dreams and face the realities of life. She sat in her small cabin, clutching her blankets around her as she attempted to resign herself to her fate, which was not such a terrible fate, truly. These were dangerous times and if she could make this sacrifice for her family, for the good of the realm, then she would do so. And she would be a _princess_ even if she were deprived of a court wedding. One must make do in times of war.

At least Prince Jon wouldn't be old like Lord Arryn, her Aunt Lysa's husband. Sansa blew her nose into her handkerchief and tried to recall what she knew of her husband-to-be. Her cousin was a little more than a year older than her and he had visited Winterfell some time after she had left for Dorne. Robb had found another brother in him and Arya, Bran, and Rickon had taken to following him around like cubs. Jon had commissioned a small sword for Arya, Robb had wrote, which had only earned him Lady Catelyn's ire. Sansa was sure her younger sister had been over the moon. Prince Jon had the Stark look about him, and her lady mother had remarked how eerie the resemblance was to their lord father. From her family's letters, she gleaned that he was kind to indulge in the children's curiosity and a very skilled swordsman (Robb had practically salivated over his ink when he wrote that last bit). So, while Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen was a stranger to her, at least he seemed to be a good man.

Sansa's own mother had faced a broken betrothal and wed her father with no love between them. That had come in time, so she could hope for the same with her own marriage. Thus, Sansa resolved to find the silver lining in her circumstances. But as they neared Tarth, the waters grew turbulent, the skies busy with thunder and wind, then rain began to batter the tiny ship back and forth. Not only was she confined below decks but she had what was possibly the worst case of seasickness. It was impossible to be ladylike and comported when one's guts were vacating themselves several times a day.

She would lay awake during the hours of the night, fervently hoping that the ship would not sink in the darkness, fat tears leaking out of her eyes and soaking the pillow beneath her cheek as she became increasingly convinced of her own martyrdom. Aye, if she was going to be denied most of the things she'd dreamed of, then she would remain solemn during the entire ceremony. She would only offer them polite smiles, the kind she had learned to do in spite of her emotions beneath, thanks to Lady Arianne and her cousins in Sunspear.

Oh, she wouldn't be rude, she would be the very picture of courtesy, but she would not give them her joy. And when it came time for the bedding...well, she would turn down the fire and invite her new husband to do his duty. Her septas had prepared her for this requirement since she was a child: she would spread her legs, it would be unpleasant, but it would only last minutes. She would bear it with the utmost dignity and then it would be over. Hadn't her own mother gotten with child soon after her parents were wed? Surely the same would happen to Sansa and then she wouldn't have to worry about her husband taking his rights for a while.

All would be well. This was manageable.

“..._Excuse me_??” Sansa was ashamed of how shrill her voice sounded, but she could not help it. She was absolutely at her wit's end and all she wanted was a single hour of stillness, but she had not gotten that in nearly a fortnight. From the nervous swallow of the Dornish captain in front of her, he was reluctant to repeat the order.

“The waters are too dangerous for the ship to dock right now, but a rowboat can make it to the shore. The Prince's men will send horses or a litter, I am sure.”

Sansa took a deep breath and counted to four. “And what of my trunks? With the delays I am only now arriving on the day of my wedding and I would hate to marry the King's son looking like a bedraggled beggar.”

“They will be sent behind you, never fear, my lady,” he reassured her.

“Very well, Captain. It seems I have little choice, but I thank you and your men all the same for conveying me this far in such dire straits.”

While her teeth chattered noisily together and her traveling dress and cloak became unbearably soaked as wave upon wave of frigid seawater splashed over the side of the rowboat, Sansa began compiling a list. _I could not marry Edric, I could not make the dress of my dreams, my family cannot be there, the seasickness has made my skin pallid, I cannot disembark at a proper dock, and I will have mere hours to ready myself to marry a stranger. _She had put her foot down and demanded that Lady make the crossing with her. If she had nothing else, at least she had her companion. The direwolf was curled up against her side, growling softly every time a wave tormented them. Before long, her journey was over and Sansa was being helped through the surf and onto the first solid ground she had touched in eleven days. Her legs shook and she clung to Ser Ostandar's arm like a newborn foal learning to get her land legs underneath her. Lady had no such trouble, leaping from the rowboat into the shallow water and racing up onto the shore, yipping excitedly as she waited for her human to catch up.

If Sansa thought things would improve once she arrived at Dragonstone Island, she was mistaken. Oh, the sight was impressive, she would give it that. The isle was shrouded in a misty fog, showing tantalizing hints of tall, craggy, and grey stone covered in green grass and trees with reddish bark. Several of those crags had waterfalls pouring down the side of them. Sansa knew from her lessons that there would be a village and a proper port around the east. Here, on the southwest shore, she was afforded a glimpse of the castle itself.

Up high, though on a lesser peak of the volcano and overlooking a steep drop to the sea was the dark, carved bust of a dragon looking out to King's Landing like the great prow of a ship. Behind it were the many tall, thin towers and pointy spires of the castle, each adorned with their own smaller dragon carvings. The stories were true, she learned: the castle had indeed been wrought out of black stone. A marvel of masonry, albeit an imposing one. Even though she had spent the entire voyage being melancholy and thinking of little but her fate here, this was the first moment that her impending marriage felt real.

This would be where she resided, as Jon was Prince of Dragonstone and commanded the lesser lords of the nearby islands. Not a sunnier castle with lots of flowers.

They had to wait for the horses to arrive, of course. While it rained. It was only the promise of shelter and a warm bath in her temporary chambers that kept Sansa from breaking down into more tears. And such strange sand it was- black with speckles that seemed to glitter! Finally, an entourage of guards arrived on horseback. When she identified one of the men costumed in white armor, Sansa was chagrined to realize she would be riding with none other than Ser Arthur Dayne, whose nephew she had sorely wished to marry. He was handsome, she could see, even through his helmet, and he had a kind smile as he tugged her up onto the horse behind him.

“Ser Arthur, I am honored,” she began to say in greeting.

“Nay, the honor is mine, Lady Sansa, to meet the daughter of Lord Eddard and the woman my nephew speaks of so fondly,” his voice rumbled over his shoulder as he nudged his horse into a canter up the heavily forested road to Dragonstone Castle.

Naturally, this statement made her burst into tears.

“My lady-” Ser Arthur began, sounding alarmed. He started tugging on the reins, intending to stop his horse.

“No, no! Keep going,” she sobbed against his back, breath hitching. “It's not you...well, it kind of is. I've just had a difficult journey is all. Please don't concern yourself with my emotions.”

The knight patted her hand with his heavily gloved one. “Very well, but if it is your groom who gives you anxiety, please rest assured Prince Jaehaerys is a good man, one of the best whom I've had the honor of serving.”

That wasn't comforting, but Sansa didn't let Ser Arthur know that. She added another item to her growing list. _I could not marry Edric, I could not make the dress of my dreams, my family cannot be there, the seasickness has made my skin pallid, I cannot disembark at a proper dock, I will have mere hours to ready myself to marry a stranger, and I got snot all over the Sword of the Morning's white cloak._

They gradually made their way up the hill, Lady running joyously through the trees next to the road, which did actually help Sansa's mood a bit. At least her direwolf would be able to hunt in these woods, which were more plentiful than the terrain around Starfall could provide.

The enormous black gates that creaked open at their approach was decorated with a coiling dragon and a row of gargoyles sat atop the battlement while a pair of hellhounds guarded the entrance. Lady ignored them as she padded through the gate.

Prince Jon was not there to greet her, for which Sansa was grateful even if a part of her was insulted at the lack of manners. She was practically whisked into one of the towers, gaping at the wide stairs with ornate railings and the suspended candelabras that seemed to be alight with dozens of tiny flames. Paintings and tapestries depicting famous sites in Targaryen history decorated the tower and its connecting hallways. Sansa was led into a set of chambers that was clearly intended to be hers for the afternoon as she prepared for the wedding.

There was, thankfully, a steaming bath waiting for her. Sansa wasted no time in shucking her sodden dress and damp smallclothes and sinking into the heated water, imagining that all her hardships over the past fortnight were being sweated out of her right that instant. Nayara, the handmaid who had accompanied Sansa from Starfall to Dragonstone, helped her wash her hair, keeping up a stream of chatter about every little thing that awed her. Once out and swaddled in a thin blanket, Sansa could admit that the bath had invigorated her, and, glancing into the mirror in the corner, she could see that her skin had pinked once again.

“My lady?” Nayara called out, hesitance writ into the expression of her face as she stood there wringing her hands in front of her skirts. A bolt of foreboding settled into Sansa's belly.

“What is it now, Nayara?” Sansa asked, already resigning herself to whatever she was about to hear.

“The- it seems the trunk containing your wedding gown took some water...I'm afraid there is no way it can be salvaged in time for-”

“Thank you. That will be all,” Sansa ground out, no longer quite seeing the dark stone around her.

“But, my lady, which gown will you wear then?”

“You know what? I shall wear the black.” The declaration was met with a horrified gasp, Nayara's brown eyes wide as she stared at Sansa.

“The black? But that's-”

“Warm and the only thing that won't horridly clash with the red-and-black cloak I will wear after I take my vows.” Her voice was firm.

“Very well, my lady.”

Sansa sat herself down in front of the fire so that her hair might dry faster, and this time, Nayara didn't dare voice a protest to how the heat would make Sansa's red locks curly and thick, perhaps picking up on how beyond cares her lady was.

_I could not marry Edric, I could not make the dress of my dreams, my family cannot be there, the seasickness has made my skin sallow, I cannot disembark at a proper dock, I will have mere hours to ready myself to marry a stranger, I got snot all over the Sword of the Morning's white cloak, the dress I worked so painstakingly on for the past fortnight is ruined and I will be wearing black to my own wedding._

It was just past mid-afternoon when a servant in Targaryen livery knocked on the door and informed Nayara that it was time for Sansa to make her way to the Brimstone Sept. Her gown had a structured bodice that left her pale, creamy shoulders uncovered, black Myrish lace that covered the skirt from the waist-down, and sleeves that were nipped in until her elbows, where they trumpeted nearly long enough to reach the floor. Her hair, Nayara had left unbound except for several strands from the temples she coiled back. A handmaid from the castle had arrived earlier bearing a diadem of pearl and onyx, which laid flat across her head. The only other jewelry she wore was a silver belt that accentuated her waist and hips, trailing down the front of her skirts.

It was probably more than a tad maudlin to show up to one's own wedding wearing a black gown, but it wasn't like her family or even Jon's own family would be in attendance to be insulted. There was a war on, after all, why disguise the maudlin nature of it all?

Sansa took up the position indicated by the steward's wife, a Velaryon woman of middle age who had a kindly smile for Sansa even if she raised an eyebrow at the girl's choice of dress. As she listened to the septon drone his way through several prayers from the Book of the Father, Sansa wondered if the groom and all their guests would be half-asleep by the time she made her entrance. Lady, sweet Lady, had followed Sansa from her temporary room down to the sept and she was tall enough by now that Sansa didn't have to bend down to run her fingers through the light grey fur. Staring into Lady's eyes, she could almost feel the bracing winds of her home on her face and it was in that moment she sorely wished she could also marry in the custom of her people: before a weirwood in front of the Old Gods. Nerves gripped her, but the presence of her direwolf steadied her somewhat. _I am a Stark, I have the blood of the First Men in me, I can be brave._

And then it was time for her to enter. She took a deep breath and walked in between the statues of the Stranger and the Crone, who were, like all the other statues of the gods, carved from wood and about twice the size of a man grown. Candles lit the sept in front of all the altars and Sansa let the light eclipse the faces of the people forming an aisle for her to traverse, not wanting to see how few there were to celebrate their prince's nuptials. She made the walk alone with her head held high, nobody daring to stand in for her father, something for which she was glad. As she approached the raised dais in between the statues of the Father and Mother, she realized that the dome over the sept was made of textured glass, showing the green of the trees that rose above it and the stormy grey clouds that were still gathering around the isle. It made the sept appear darkly ethereal.

Then there was nothing to do but lay eyes upon her groom for the first time. Sansa almost wished she had worn a veil the way they did in the Riverlands, for she felt utterly naked to see him studying her intently.

Prince Jon stood before the Father, looking solemn in his own deep-red tunic, cloak, and black breeches. He had been described to her, but Sansa was still surprised to see how utterly _Stark_ he looked. She had met his brother, Prince Aegon once, in Sunspear. Aegon was pale haired and violet of eye and he had been thoroughly charming, always ready with an easy smile. Jon's hair was dark and she saw how her mother would say he resembled her father, save for the brown eyes that he had inherited from his mother and grandmother, Lyarra. His beard was closely shorn and made him seem years older than his nine and ten. He did not smile, but he nodded solemnly as she ascended the steps, taking her right hand in his left as they turned to face the ancient septon. For her part, Sansa nodded in return and maintained the serene, barely-there smile she had practiced in the mirror before leaving her chambers.

The septon told Jon, “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” Jon let go of her hand to unclasp his cloak, black with the red, three-headed Targaryen dragon and lined in white ermine. She helped him by lifting the length of her hair away, exposing her bare shoulders. His thumb skittered over her skin and she had to suppress a shiver at such an unfamiliar sensation. The cloak covered her then, warm and heavier than she had expected. Sansa had always been tall for a girl and in the past few years she had grown even more, bringing herself to a height with her groom. As he fumbled to affix the clasp at the base of her throat, Jon was frowning, his eyes trained intensely on the clasp rather than her. He glanced up into her eyes for a fraction of a moment and already she felt overcome. They turned to face the septon again. “My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of the gods and men to witness the union of husband and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” He then brandished a red ribbon and tied it in a knot around her and Jon's joined hands. “Let it be known that Sansa of House Stark and Jaehaerys of House Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be those who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”

The ribbon unraveled, but Jon kept holding her hand aloft. His thumb across her fingers was almost comforting.

“Look upon each other and say the words.”

The entire sept seemed to disappear as she looked at Jon and waited for him to start them off. Simultaneously, she recited her part: “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger...”

“I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

“I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

Sansa knew full well what was coming next, but Jon seemed to wait an eternity before he declared, “With this kiss, I pledge my love,” and leaned in to press a chaste kiss to her lips. Dazed from the surreal nature of it all, she turned with him to face the applause and cheers of their small audience. A surreptitious glance over to her new husband showed Jon ducking his head in a brusque nod, clearly not reveling in this type of attention.

Jon steered her down the steps and through the aisle of well-wishers who congratulated them as they went. Sansa wondered if Jon even realized he was still holding onto her hand. Her lips still tingled as they left the sept and headed for the Great Hall. She nearly slowed to a stop, mouth dropping open at the sight of the Great Hall, which was carved in the shape of an enormous dragon lying on its belly. It's big mouth opened wide, exposing the doors set just inside.

“Into the belly of the beast.” She tore her wide eyes away from the wonder to see Jon's lips quirked in amusement. She started to smile back before she remembered she had resolved to not appear happy. His face fell and Sansa felt guilty.

“You can say that again,” she murmured as they passed through the doors and headed for the table on the dais, above the salt. The other guests filed in behind them and Sansa couldn't bring herself to be bothered by the informal setting of the feast. Just looking at the pigeon pie off to the side was reminding her how famished she was. Sansa had rather stupidly limited how much she ate for the last few days of the voyage as a form of silent protest and she was sorely regretting that right now. Bowls and platters were carried out by servants and set on the tables. They both did their best to smile and seem happy as they stood around the pigeon pie and cut the first slice. Sansa found herself sharing shy glances with Jon as they awkwardly made small conversation about who wanted what item and thanks when Jon spooned some root vegetables onto her plate for her. Hungry though she might be, she still had to maintain her ladylike restraint as was expected. She knew well enough what people in the South thought of Northerners. 'Uncivilized' and 'barbaric' were common refrains. Her and Allyria had bonded over the other kingdoms having prejudices about their homes.

“I'm sorry,” Jon's low voice rumbled near her ear, startling her. Sansa turned to face him, rather aware of how close he was. Had to be, in order to be heard over the dozens of conversations taking place in the Great Hall.

“For what, your grace?”

He shrugged and she wondered if he always appeared so sullen or brooding. “I know this can't have been how you envisioned your wedding and our families gave us no time at all to prepare.” Well, at least he acknowledged that.

“What else can we do, your grace? We are subject to the will and needs of our families.” He winced at her phrasing.

“Jon.”

“Hm?”

“If it pleases you, my lady, I would have you call me Jon when we are together.”

Sansa took a sip of her wine before nodding. “Very well, y- Jon.”

He turned back to his plate, grabbing his goblet and practically gulping his wine down. Sansa wondered if she should start doing the same. Their meal passed in relative silence and it wasn't until they were halfway through the honeyed pears and chilled cream that served as the dessert course that she realized with a sad pang that she wouldn't have lemoncakes at her own wedding feast. Somehow, that one fact made her sadder than anything she had endured thus far. She could deal with the ruined gown, the arduous journey, the rain, the rushed marriage. But could they not have at least had this one small thing? Even if her father was too busy dealing with preparations for war, Sansa wasn't sure how Catelyn would have failed to mention how much the bride adored that particular dessert. Now that it was likely less than a hour away, suddenly the bravado that had carried her this far began to fail as Sansa thought about the bedding.

She might be a maiden but Sansa had heard enough gossip to glean what occurred in the marriage bed, a little more than her septas had ever told her. She'd sometimes thought about it, lying in her own bed at night, cheeks heated as she squeezed her thighs together. She would picture- or rather, hope for- kisses and nice touches. Gentleness and some attention to her own pleasure (which Allyria had insisted was possible for women to have during the act) and the thrilling intimacy of their naked bodies being pressed together.

In that moment, Sansa wanted nothing more than to just have it all over with. She was exhausted, sad, and alone. As the dessert course winded down, Sansa began to imbibe more wine every time she sipped, grateful to the servant who had poured her a large amount the second time. Perhaps she knew the bride needed a little extra courage. There was evidently to be no dancing at all, at least not for the bride and groom, for no sooner had the dessert plates been cleared away than cries of “to the bedding!” went up.

Sansa had already removed the cloak, not wanting to be overheated during the feast. She didn't look to Jon as she was hurried out of her seat and herded out of the Great Hall. For this, she was glad her family wasn't here to witness the way drunken men pawed at her and divested her of the top half of her gown, her skirts, and a particularly determined knight from House Celtigar even managed to loosen her corset with a victorious shout. It was only a barked order from Ser Arthur that stopped the men from removing her shift and leaving her exposed before their eyes in naught but her smallclothes.

Sansa was hoisted aloft and deposited with cheers and raucous bits of advice that had her blushing. Alone in what were obviously Jon's bedchambers for a short bit, she spotted the pitchers on a far table and rushed over there to pour herself some extra wine, hoping that the three goblets she'd had would help her through this. She felt a pleasant warmth beginning to flood through her body, making the sharp edge of her anxiety become a bit fuzzy and further away.

Like the rest of the castle, as far as she had seen, the stone in here was black, though there were rather expansive windows along one curved wall The four-poster, canopied bed drew the eye to the center of the room. The wooden carvings on the headboard, unsurprisingly, depicted dragons. However, unlike the expected Targaryen colors, Jon's bed was covered with a muted golden blanket and the curtains tied back from the canopy were a dark blue she'd associate more with the North. Sansa stared at the bed and swallowed hard.

Not giving herself time to second-guess her decision, she reached underneath her shift and tugged her smallclothes down her legs, depositing them on a chair that was nearly out of sight. She pulled back the blanket and slid underneath, heart pounding wildly. Just in time, because she heard female voices yelling and cheering and the door was flung open as Jon was all but shoved through. The women had truly been determined, for he had been left in naught but his unlaced breeches.

She did her best to hide a smile at the blush that covered half of Jon's face. Wild-eyed, he slammed the door closed behind him, still clutching both ends of his breeches together. Her new husband was handsome and obviously very dedicated to his training if the sleek muscles of his torso were anything to go by. There was a dusting of dark hair on his chest and down the center of his torso. He barred the door, the thud of the latch making her feel a bit faint. When Jon finally turned to look at her, Sansa saw the barely masked trepidation on his face and it occurred to her that perhaps Jon was nervous about the bedding himself. She looked away.

“I'm ready for you, my lord,” she murmured. She heard him sigh at her reverting to the formal address.

“I had thought perhaps we could talk. We've scarcely had any time to know one other,” he argued, padding closer to the bed.

“That's not necessary tonight. I would rather get this part over with, if you would please,” she told him tersely, still staring up at the canopy. Strangely, Jon seemed to take exception to that.

“I wouldn't be so callous towards a maiden! At least allow me to make it pleasant for you-”

Anybody who knew the kind of fortnight she'd had would hopefully forgive her for jackknifing up in the bed and shooting her husband a withering look. “Pleasant? I had expected that I would be betrothed to another man, I had no time to make the dress I wanted and the one I spent the past fortnight working on is ruined, I spent most of the sea voyage sick in my cabin, and I got so emotional that I got snot all over Ser Arthur's white cloak, none of my family could be there, and finally, there were neither my favored lemoncakes nor dancing at my own wedding feast. I don't think 'pleasant' is an option any longer!” She was breathing heavily by the end of her rant and once she realized what she had done, Sansa whimpered with horror. He must think her a spoiled brat.

Jon simply stood there and raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

She flung herself back onto the bed with a wordless cry of frustration. “Forgive me, my lord. I'm simply tired, you probably think I'm awful, and I think I have humiliated myself enough in one day.” She kicked the blanket off and, seizing what last courage she still had, tugged her shift up around her hips, baring her most private place to his gaze. She covered her eyes with one arm before saying, “We are past the point of this being anything but unpleasant for me, so would you please just take me and be done with- _ah_!”

She let out a startled squeal, eyes flying open when she felt Jon haul her hips around, pulling her to the side of the bed. He had the same determined focus in his eyes from earlier with the cloak as he knelt before her splayed thighs and put his mouth to her flower. She was too stunned at first to do anything but lie there while Jon parted her folds with two fingers. When he closed his lips around that nub and suckled, Sansa clamped her thighs around his head from the sudden, sharp pleasure. Her mind began working again and she pushed ineffectually against Jon's head. “What are you doing? What are- what are-” She trailed off, too busy trying to get enough air into her lungs. She hadn't known tongues could go there, could do those kinds of things like Jon was doing to her right now, or that those things could feel so good. Too good. The sensations swamping her were so intense, Sansa didn't think she could bear them. 

But trapping Jon there with her thighs didn't offer her any relief. He gently but insistently pushed her knees back down to the edge of the mattress. She kept pushing against Jon's head, relieved when he left her poor, throbbing nub alone and moved further down. As exquisite as the torture was, him stopping would be even worse. He didn't stop, but continued to bury his face against her. That maddening tongue lapped at her folds, his nose pressing against the nub she had scarcely allowed herself to explore in her own beds or in the bath. Jon devoured her as if starved, the wet noises alone had her face flushing and her skin overheating. While Jon's tongue flicked and his lips suckled, Sansa squirmed and mewled as the rest of her body coiled tighter and tighter. She was burning, she was going to die, she was-

Like a spark, the inferno grew and grew until she was crying out and clenching against him and a terrible, beautiful wave burst over her, knocking her back into the bed. 

She trembled, breathing heavily and feeling like there was nothing anymore she could be inclined to do but lay here and feel like this. Yet Jon continued to work his mouth on her, his tongue indolently teasing every last spasm from her. Sansa can't seem to stop the wanton roll of her hips and worse- Jon didn't seem inclined to stop her either. 

“You're wicked,” she moaned, “You're so wicked.” Her hands were back on his head and applying pressure- but to push him away or to push him back down? His arms are locked around her hips, and Sansa found a certain security knowing he wouldn't let her escape. Jon watched her intently as he began to build her back up. Raising her head, she met his dark eyes, knowing he could see her every reaction, and her skin tingled and her blood began to stir once again. She nearly sobbed as her body surrendered, undulating against that awful, awful mouth.

He stopped.

Sansa couldn't contain the whine that left her throat then. She stared at Jon, kneeling before her, lips glistening noticeably. She realized she had been gripping his head so tightly his hair had escaped its tie, leaving his curls free. The sight filled her with a strange kind of satisfaction.

“I may be wicked, my lady, but what does that make you?” He asked her, voice impossibly husky. His fingers stroked her folds before two slowly sank into her. She could feel the stretch, the peculiar sort of almost-ache.

“Your wife,” she sighed. “I am your lady wife and you oughtn't toy with me like this,” she told him petulantly. She wasn't sure, but she could have sworn she heard a bit-off curse before Jon brought his other thumb up and lightly rubbed above her nub, mindful of how sensitive she was. She arched off the bed, keening as she clenched around his fingers. Was that what it would feel like with his- with his cock?

Experimentally, she rotated her bottom then tried rocking against his hands as he twisted his fingers inside her. “That's it,” he crooned. “That's it, sweet girl.” Jon replaced his thumb with his tongue, wasting no time flicking the tip rapidly over her nub. Sansa lost herself to the relentless pleasure with abandon, using the leg she had curled over his shoulder as leverage, jerking her hips so roughly it was a distant worry she'd hurt him. In no time at all, her peak crashed over her, leaving her a shuddering, boneless mess half on the bed, half sprawled all over Jon. He seemed determined to keep licking at her and finally Sansa had to beg him.

“Stop, please.”

He did, collapsing over her, desperately gulping in lungfuls of air as he rested his head against her stomach. Still swimming in a daze of contentment, Sansa distractedly combed her fingers through his hair, waiting for her heartbeat to calm. Gradually Jon started placing soft, chaste kisses over the skin of her stomach, nosing up her shift so he could reach the space between her ribcage. Then skipping over the bunched material, he dotted kisses at the base of her throat. Sansa bared the column of her neck, forcing him to keep going before he got his prize. One underneath her chin, and then she allowed him to claim her lips underneath his, feeling the scratch of his beard against her face and the hand she had cupped against his jaw.

This was a different kind of kiss than the one in the sept. There was a tang there that Sansa knew came from her, which filled her with a filthy thrill as she opened her mouth to the hot sweep of Jon's tongue. Finally, he raised his head and looked down at her, stroking a knuckle over her cheekbone. “That wasn't so unpleasant, was it?” He murmured. As much as he tried to hide it, Sansa spotted the smug tilt of his mouth and rolled her eyes.

“I suppose it was passable,” she teased him with a shrug.

“Passable!”

Sansa yelped as Jon hauled her up and flipped her around so she was bouncing on the bed. She laughed and laughed, sobering when she realized that her exhaustion and bad temper had all but melted away thanks to Jon. She was overcome with a tender outpouring for this man who was now her husband. That gave her the determination to do what she did next.

“Sansa?” Jon asked, frowning as she sat up on the bed. She didn't respond, choosing instead to untie the string keeping her shift snug over the top of her breasts. Once the material loosened, she wriggled until she could tug it up over her head and toss it over the side of the bed. Then she stared up at him expectantly. The awe in his eyes as they roved over her completely bared body kept her from feeling overly vulnerable.

“You're beautiful,” he mumbled. With a fumble at his laces, Jon was finally shoving his breeches and smallclothes down his legs. As he stood before her, Sansa forced herself to quash the urge to avert her eyes, looking her fill. His cock jutted out proudly from a thatch of dark hair even curlier than the ones on his head. She had no measure by which to judge whether he was bigger or smaller than the average man but she did have a flitting thought wondering how all that would fit inside her. Sansa knew she was blushing as she admired the musculature in his thighs and when she dared dart her eyes back up to his, Jon placed a knee on the mattress and crawled towards her. She reclined, stretching out as he covered her body with her own. It was simple instinct to part her legs until her knees were pressed into the mattress so Jon could settle into the cradle of her thighs.

At first, they seemed to just stare at each other and Sansa could tell from the tension in his body that Jon was holding his weight off of her. All the same, she could feel the hardness of his cock against her lower belly. He seemed hesitant to take the next step. This sudden shyness after he'd had his face buried between her thighs was endearing.

Sansa was curious. “Can I touch it?”

He was clearly startled at her request, nodding jerkily as he raised himself further off her. “Of course.”

She reached for it slowly, as if it were an animal that would startle easily. It twitched the moment she touched it with her fingers. Jon showed her how to grip it and encouraged her to move her hand up and down. His cock was hard, but the skin seemed to slide over a steel shaft beneath and with every downstroke, the flesh pulled away revealing a bulbous tip that was leaking a clear fluid. “It's not always like this, is it? Not when you were standing in the sept?”

“Oh gods, no,” Jon groaned, his breath coming out in harsh pants. “It's only like this when I get, ah, excited. This is from having my mouth on your cunt.” Sansa's eyes widened.

“That's from me?” She kept pumping her hand up and down the length but seeing how she was affecting him- Jon's eyelids were drifting closed and he was rocking down into her hand, muscles trembling from the effort- she felt a rush of power. Darting in, she brushed her lips against his, making him open his eyes again.

“Aye, you do this to me, Sansa.”

She grinned before biting her lip. “I'm ready if- if you are...”

Jon nodded, seemingly speechless, then shifted back over her and lowering his hips in between her thighs. He reached down and took himself in hand, placing the tip against her folds. She braced her hands on his arms, clutching him a little tighter as her body opened up for him. It was a completely foreign sensation, and the stretch stung, making tears come to her eyes. Jon noticed.

“I can stop-”

“No!” Sansa exclaimed, tugging on his back to encourage him to continue. “The pain fades. Please, Jon, there is no need to stop.”

She was aware of Jon's eyes intently studying her face for the merest hint of pain but he did as she bade him and started gliding back and forth, pushing deeper with every thrust until their bodies were touching and she could feel the coarse hairs against her inner thighs.

“Alright?”

“Mm-mnm," she nodded. "But I don't know what to do.” Nothing in any of her lessons had prepared her for what she had experienced so far in the marriage bed.

“Try moving against me,” Jon advised, reaching down in between their bodies so he could press his thumb against her nub. Sansa had not known it was even possible for a woman to peak more than one time in a single night, but here she was, gasping and canting her hips against his as the faint echoes of pleasure built in spite of the soreness inside her. She tried to stay in rhythm with Jon, watching his brows furrow from the effort. From the pained look on his face, this must feel very good for him and Sansa wondered why he was even trying to wait for her, after he had already made her peak twice.

"Jon," she moaned, her eyes fluttering closed as a particularly well-timed rub of his finger had her clamping down on him in just the right way. That, as well as the way the hairs on his chest made her nipples tingle, had her realizing how close she actually was to another peak. She rotated her hips and then Jon's weight was all on her, trapping his thumb there. She cried out, rocking with him, hearing his hot, broken moans against her ear. Gods, it was right there, so close...there, if she could just-

Sansa clung to Jon's shoulders as the waves lapped at her, rotating her hips strongly and forcing her eyes open so she could watch as he shuddered and lost control of his rhythm. He was shaking as he stilled atop her and Sansa's own legs were so weak from all the straining she had done, she knew not what to do with them, not while he was still inside her. Their bodies cooled and their heartbeats slowed before Jon finally lifted himself off her. It was a peculiar sensation, feeling his cock slip out of her. She hardly knew where to look, what to do, what to say. 

Silence reigned in the bedchamber as Jon climbed off the bed and moved around to a table against the wall that had a washbasin on top of it. Even after what they had just done, Sansa looked away as Jon quickly cleaned himself. She started to pull the golden blanket she'd kicked away earlier back up the bed.

"Here." Jon was standing next to the bed, holding out a wet piece of cloth to her. "If you wanted to, ah, clean yourself." He ducked his eyes away from hers as she reached out and accepted the washcloth. 

"Thank you," she said. Jon nodded and left her to it, giving her his back and a measure of privacy as he headed towards a set of drawers. Her flower felt a bit raw and sensitive as she ran the washcloth over it, her nub giving off an almost painful twinge from the stimulation. It didn't help that she couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from Jon's backside. Surely there had to be a limit! Sansa wondered rather dazedly that such pleasures in the marriage bed were kept secret, and if this was the common experience or if...if _this_, with Jon, was special. 

Jon pulled on a set of soft breeches to sleep in as well as an rather exquisite looking nightgown, which he brought over to her. "My mother had this made as a gift for her new good-daughter," he explained as she gasped and fingered the soft lavender material. The embroidery along the neckline and the sleeves was intricate, something she herself would have difficulty attempting herself. 

"I will have to give her my thanks when I meet her." It hadn't escaped her notice that Jon referred to Queen Elia as his mother, and so warmly, too. There had been great scandal when the then-Prince Rhaegar wed her aunt Lyanna, intending to have two wives as Aegon the Conqueror had before him, the realm barely avoiding war when King Aerys died. Then Lyanna had succumbed to childbirth fever. Many women would not have tolerated their husband's child by another woman, let alone love them and raise them to call her mother. But perhaps if Queen Elia loved Jon as her own son, she would not think poorly of her good-daughter being a Stark.

Sansa forgot her nakedness, flinging the covers away and hurrying out of the bed so she could don the nightgown, nearly moaning in delight at the soft material against her skin. "It is so lovely!" She beamed at Jon and felt a flutter somewhere around her heart when Jon grinned back. She started to get back in the bed when he cleared his throat, making her pause and turn back to stare quizzically at him.

"Don't you want to take the diadem off, first?" 

Sansa patted her hand over her head and flushed when she realized she still wore the pearl and onyx diadem. "I hadn't even realized it was still on," she groaned, pulling at the pins that secured it to her hair. Jon helped her untangle the strands of her hair from it.

"I thought you looked like a dark faery queen with it," he murmured, setting the cluster of stones on the table by the bed. She couldn't help preening at the sweet words, finding them more honest than the most flowery line in a poem.

"Well, this faery queen is exhausted and thinks sleep sounds wonderful."

There was a bit of awkwardness climbing back in bed as they tried to negotiate who would sleep on which side, but eventually Sansa settled into the left side of the bed while Jon took the right. The fire had dwindled to a low glow, casting most of the room in near-darkness. Sansa curled up on her side, facing Jon where he lay on his back. If she reached out, she would be able to touch him. She might be a wife now, wedded and bedded, but some of the old restraints from her days as a maiden persisted. Her hands stayed tucked against her pillow. Though...

"Jon?"

"Yes, Sansa?"

"I'm glad you didn't just take me," she told him, feeling the heaviness that drew her eyelids shut. "Your way was much more pleasant."

"I'm glad, too," he murmured. "Sleep, I will see you in the morn." Toasty under the blanket, and hearing Jon's steady breathing next to her, scarcely had Sansa closed her eyes than she was slipping into oblivion, a small smile on her face.


End file.
